


try and hear me when i'm done

by HirilElfwraith



Category: Ghost - Mystery Skulls (Music Video), Mystery Skulls (Band)
Genre: Angst, Arthur is not good at coping with Lewis's death, Arthur needs all the hugs, Gen, Suicide Attempt, Vivi is sad but awesome, nothing is okay but everybody says it a lot anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HirilElfwraith/pseuds/HirilElfwraith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the days after he gets out of the hospital are the worst, you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try and hear me when i'm done

**Author's Note:**

> well this pretty much sprung fully formed into being around 10 this morning when I was supposed to be doing my chemistry homework
> 
> arthur is my child and i love him and not nearly enough people seem to realize how absolutely shitty it must have been for quite a while after lewis died and arthur lost his arm

the days after he gets out of the hospital are the worst, you think. 

it surprises you, because you thought nothing could top those first few days afterward, the horrible daze that choked your thoughts, the vision of lewis breaking on the stone spikes that seemed burned onto the back of your eyelids, the long periods of time that you can’t remember at all because they were done on autopilot and the longer periods of time that you think you will never, ever be able to forget. arthur was unconscious still, or sleeping, face white with blood loss, and despite the thin covers pulled up to his neck you could see the uneven distribution where his left arm is just…gone, and you sat by his bedside for hours waiting for him to wake up, listening to him whimpering in his sleep, faint sounds almost lost among the whirr and beep of the machines surrounding him. 

but it’s worse now, because here, sitting on the sticky linoleum floor of his apartment, he is silent. 

you don’t think you can ever really recall a time when he was silent. he always made some sound, especially when he was upset, nervous chattering or the rapid tap-tap-tap of his heel on the floor or his fingers on his knee or the heavy wheezing that preceded a panic attack or the soft, broken sobs that he tried to stifle when they were all strung out on adrenaline, because while she basked in it and lewis was mostly indifferent arthur always broke down into crying, even if he wasn’t upset. it was just his response, and you’ve grown to accept it as part of him, even love it, because even if you don’t feel for him quite the same way you feel (felt) for lewis, he’s still one of the most important people in your world— _the_ most important, now.

he is silent now, though, and the silence is worse than any tears could ever be, even worse than the ragged hitching cries caught on the blood in his throat as you frantically drove toward a landmark where the ambulance could find you, even worse than the broken-down despairing wails the third day after he woke up, because now you think he looks worse than you have ever seen him.

you told him you would stay with him as much as you could, and for the most part you’ve kept your promise, but his tiny apartment doesn’t have a place for you to sleep comfortably and you have to feed your cats and take care of the things in your own tiny apartment on the other side of town (and you feel guilty but you need some time away from everything to breathe and cry and curl up with the knitted sweater vest lewis left here last time he stayed the night that you’d been meaning to return but now you never can, a time to grieve on your own when you don’t have to be strong for anyone else), but you made him promise to call if he needed anything, even if it was the middle of the night, and he nodded without meeting your eyes. you try not to be gone long, but a few hours turns into a lot of hours after you fall asleep with your memories and your cats, and your phone, tucked into your bra partially because your skirt doesn’t have pockets and partially so you won’t miss the vibration of a new text or call, doesn’t notify you. 

by the time you get back, gasping apologies that you fell asleep I’m so sorry, arthur looks tired and worn-out but tells you it’s okay, gives you a weak smile that doesn’t reach his bloodshot eyes. _i slept anyway,_ he says. _hardly even noticed you were gone._ you know it’s a lie, but you say nothing, just reach out to gently take his hand (his only hand remaining) and run your thumb over his knuckles and return that tight false smile. 

 _it’s okay_ , he tells you a few days later, soft and heavy. _you can go home for a while. i think i’m getting used to things._ you silently disagree, but you have to admit that you are exhausted, that even though you love arthur and want to make sure he’s okay you don’t think you can take much longer sleeping on his couch and listening to his sobs from the other room and pretending to sleep, pretending to be strong, swamped in grief but feeling stuck, unable to grieve. 

 _it’s okay_ , he whispers, and you carefully wrap your arms around his narrow chest and dissolve into tears, pressing your face against his white t shirt, and he rubs your back with one shaking hand, and once your tears finally become manageable you nod shakily at him and tell him _okay_ , make him promise again to call or text if he needs something.

you cry, and sleep, and shower, and breathe, and despite the heavy grief still choking you, despite the nightmares that still plague your sleep, you begin to feel better. 

 _lewis wouldn’t want you sad,_ you think to yourself, and even though it still hurts—you think it will always hurt—even though you miss him more than anything, you creep your way to finding a bit of peace with yourself.

you check in with arthur after 24 hours but he’s asleep when you let yourself in, so you leave him a note and go to run some errands. this happens a few more times, a few more days, and he doesn’t seem to be getting better but you don’t want to wake him up. 

you finally catch him awake on the fourth day, sitting slumped on the kitchen floor staring into nothing, and he is silent. 

 _arthur_ , you say, but he doesn’t respond. his head is downturned, unshaven face grey and haggard. _hey,_ you say, _you okay?_ despite knowing that nothing will ever be fully okay ever again. 

he breathes out but says nothing. he’s lost weight that he couldn’t afford to lose. his eyes are bloodshot and the skin around them is bruise-dark. 

you sit in front of him, touch his hand. his breath smells like vomit and the cigarettes he quit months ago. he breathes shallowly, like it hurts. 

he doesn’t flinch at the contact, and you think that’s almost worse, because he’s almost always jumped a bit when someone touches him unprovoked, no matter how gentle, like it’s an unfamiliar surprise but not necessarily an unpleasant one. (you don’t know much about arthur’s past. you are almost afraid to ask.) he doesn’t accept it like a friend accepting comfort, because he’s got instinctual anxious walls so ingrained that every friendly touch surprises him before he realizes it’s okay. to him, you think, every touch is a threat at first. but now he accepts the contact like a man accepting a death sentence, like whatever harm you could bring doesn’t matter any more. 

you sit there with your hand touching his and your heart in your throat for what feels like hours. he hasn’t showered. his hair flops into his face, ungelled and uncombed. 

 _i fucked up, vivi,_ he rasps finally, and says nothing more. 

(when you step into his room, the smell of bile is overpowering. his sheets and comforter are bundled over into the corner, wet to the touch. you move over to the bare mattress and see the empty bottle of sleeping pills fallen on the floor next to his wastebasket, where the bag’s been removed. you think of his dead eyes and the sickness on his breath, stare at the tiny half-dissolved white lumps on the carpet, and you go out and wrap him in an embrace until his breath starts shaking, until his hand clenches in your sweater like a lifeline, and he cries, ugly racking sobs, and you hold him through it, hold him until his tears run out and he whispers an apology. when you murmur _it’s okay,_ soft and reassuring, he shakes his head.) 

 

(a year and several months later, he sits with that same silence, with those same dead eyes, clutching the wheel with white knuckles. _talk to me_ , you say. he lets out a low, sobbing keen and says nothing.)

 


End file.
